


Ketchup or Blood or Some Such Stuff

by enthroned



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:36:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthroned/pseuds/enthroned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Derek comes to appreciate Stiles' wardrobe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ketchup or Blood or Some Such Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing something in the Teen Wolf fandom, so I'm terribly sorry if anything seems glaringly off. It's also unbeta'd, so please forgive me if there are any spelling or grammatical errors. The title was taken The Kinks' song "The Shirt."

There is a sweater in the bottom drawer that doesn’t fit him. In fact, it never has. Without bothering to try the ridiculous looking thing on, he can tell that it will be too tight across his chest and too short to even reach the waistband of his jeans. It’s buried beneath one of his own shirts, one that won’t shred into pieces the moment he pulls it over his head. But Derek knows, on some strange instinct, exactly where to find it.

The sweater is a hideous thing. Some distant, twice removed relative sent it in the mail, and it had been worn only once and just long enough for the obligatory photo that would be shipped back with a thank you note. At least, this is the story that Stiles tells him after Derek goes diving into his drawers and comes back up with this horrible excuse for a shirt. Derek knows it’s a blatant lie, and he doesn’t need to rely on the kid’s heartbeat to tell him as much, even as it flutters around like a scared little butterfly, caught in the spider’s twisted web. The sweater is a shade of green that reminds him of crocodiles and swamps. There’s a face dead in the center, waiting to be turned into a bullseye, complete with a white beard and a red hat and pink cheeks and it’s all so very jolly that it makes Derek’s stomach turn a bit. The neck is stretched out far too wide to fit anyone properly now and there’s a hole at the bottom of one of the sleeves, most likely from a thumb nervously digging at it for days on end. There is a bleach stain down the front, a casualty from the first time a young boy attempted to do a load of laundry on his own.

Most importantly, it smells like Stiles.

He doesn’t ask before he takes it, just waits for Stiles to start to snore and then claims it as his own. He leaves through the window and presses the sweater against his cheek when he makes it to his own bed. The scent of the kid hits him square in the face, like a professional boxer just wound back and introduced his fist to Derek’s nose. It’s immediately calming and he almost hates himself for that. The shirt goes into its new place after that, there to stay until he almost loses his temper the next week and immediately makes a grab for it. It keeps his eyes from flashing the color Stiles claims reminds him of deep space; he doesn’t bother to question how the kid ever got the idea that deep space would be blue and so very primal. He assumes they don’t teach astronomy at Beacon Hills High and resolves to replace the sweater with a book on black holes.

When he climbs through the familiar window again, book tucked under his arm, Stiles asks if he’s seen that awful sweater. Derek tells him no and makes Stiles read to him about the mysteries of the universe.


End file.
